


Injustice

by ignitesthestars



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during that first three years. Anders has an aching problem, he should probably get that seen to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Injustice

Anders is in the process of nursing a cup of mediocre apple juice in the Hanged Man when he hears it. The unmistakeable sound of Marian Hawke’s laughter, spilling through the tavern as she tumbles in herself, leaning on an equally amused Isabela, the both of them listening intently to whatever story Varric is spinning for the two of them now. A smile springs to his lips, unbidden, only to be chased away by a frown as the part of him that is also Justice disapproves.   
  
The spirit has been restless, lately, and tempting himself with Hawke is the quickest way he knows to make that worse. He takes another sip of apple juice, winces, and turns his face away from the table the warrior and her friends have claimed for their own. He’ll sneak out the back way – a window, if he gets desperate – as soon as he gets a chance.  
  
Hawke laughs again, and Anders closes his eyes for a moment. Well. It wouldn’t be fair on his apple juice, if he just left it sitting there. It might begin to feel unwanted. You could even call that unjust. He takes the smallest of mouthfuls, and concentrates on a nearby piece of wall.  
  
It’s not a sign of good mental health that he does this, indulges in Hawke’s presence like he does. He’s aware that some people might even consider it to be creepy, but that’s hardly unusual in the woman’s motley assortment of companions. It’s just that – she’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before. He can see in her the similarities to Elissa, which drew him to her in the first place, but it’s the differences that drag him closer.   
  
She understands what it is to fear the Templars, to hate them, to run from them, to stand up and fight against them. Her curiosity is insatiable. She doesn’t hesitate to dive into the middle of an argument between her companions, doesn’t try to make peace between them when she knows no peace can be had. Her eyes are a peculiar shade of blue that make him think of magic. She once engaged in a burping contest with a local drunk, started a bar fight when she lost, and has on more than one occasion insisted that she can grow a more impressive beard than all the men in a room put together.  
  
She’s not untouchable, like the Warden-Commander. He tries to think of her that way, to raise her on a pedestal so he’s not tempted to reach for her, but then she throws a screwed up copy of his manifesto at his head to catch his attention, or invents curses under her breath as he heals a wound of hers, or simply falls asleep on him after staying up for two days straight planning a mission, and he knows he’s lost.  
  
Someone drinking in another corner of the bar pulls out a battered old instrument, and a lively tune starts up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a few of the refugees who have managed to make a life for themselves her in Kirkwall throw themselves into a relatively clear space of the tavern and start dancing; the tune picks up, and Isabela drags a protesting Varric up and begins to whirl around with him.  
  
“You know, for a man in a dress, you don’t seem to be having much fun.”  
  
Anders bites back a groan, turning his face slowly upwards to look at Hawke, who has her arms crossed over her chest and is raising an eyebrow at him. “Hello, Hawke. It’s not really a dress, you know.”  
  
She pulls up a chair and straddles it, resting her arms on the back, and her chin on her arms. “Hi Anders, it’s close enough.” A beat. “You know, call me crazy – and people do, frequently – but I get the impression that you’ve been avoiding me.”  
  
He blinks at her, before straightening awkwardly. “What-? Where would you get an idea like that? I haven’t been avoiding you, that would just – we’re companions, I wouldn’t _avoid_ you.”  
  
“You do this thing where you tug your ear when you’re lying,” she points out; Anders jerks his hand away from the place where he used to have an earring.  
  
“It’s not – you,” he says after a moment, not quite meeting her eyes. It is her, but he doesn’t _want_ it to be. He likes being around this woman. Loves it, even. “Justice is being difficult. It makes being around anyone hard.”  
  
“Right, of course.” She nods very seriously at him, looking almost earnest with her chin on her hands like that. “Which is you came to a tavern full of people.”  
  
She has him there. “…I was craving apple juice?”  
  
“You’re a very bad liar,” Hawke announces, and before he has time to protest that he’s a _magnificent_ liar, thank you very much, she’s tossed herself out of her chair and his working on dragging him out of his. “Come on, dance with me.”  
  
“Wh – I – Hawke!” He can’t help but laugh at the look on her face. “I can’t dance.”  
  
She succeeds in tugging him out of the chair, and a rousing shout goes up from the crowd in the Hanged Man as she tries to lead him towards that central space. “Terrible liar!” she reminds him. “Isabela’s told me all about that Spicy Shimmy of yours.”  
  
He groans, throwing a dark glare at the pirate, who makes a lewd expression in response. “Never have I more regretted sleeping with a woman.”   
  
“Terrible liar~” the pirate sings as she spins by with Varric.  
  
Hawke eyes him as she holds onto his hand and starts to do some sort of jig for her own amusement. “I swear I bathed today, Anders.” She lifts up his arm and spins under it, grinning up at him. There’s a flash of something that he can’t describe in those electric blue eyes of hers, but her head turns too fast for him to figure it out. “Unless there’s some other reason you feel you can’t stand to be near me, lately?”  
  
There’s a weight to her words that makes him panic a little – _she knows_ – but she doesn’t push any further than that. Somehow, she always knows when to stop before she goes too far with him, although he’s not entirely sure what ‘too far’ would entail in this situation. Calling him out on his feelings? “It’s not that I can’t stand—”  
  
“JUST DANCE WITH HER ALREADY, BOY!” The shout comes from the grizzled old man on the instrument, and is followed by another cheer from the rest of the patrons. Hawke’s face lights up when she laughs, and Anders curses inwardly. Definitely lost. So far gone that he doesn’t even want to start looking for the way out. He should feel bad about it, but in the face of that smile, he can’t.  
  
“…I suppose one dance won’t hurt,” he says, giving an exaggerated sigh that makes her eyes sparkle in response.  
  
Varric hops past him with Isabela still on his arm. “You, my friend, have clearly never danced with Hawke before.”  
  
He does end the night with more bruises on his feet than he thinks he’s collectively had in his entire life. But having gained them through spending Maker only knows how much time with Hawke in his arms as one dance turned into countless others, he thinks he’ll survive it.  
  
 _Distraction._ The word runs blue tinged through his mind as he returns to the clinic  
  
 _Shut up, Justice._ The spirit is right, of course; she _is_ a distraction, one he neither of the can afford. That doesn’t stop him from thinking of magic-bright eyes and a too-wide smile as he curls up on his cot in the corner of the clinic and tries to sleep.


End file.
